


can i go where you go?

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [25]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Past Suicide, M/M, Major Character Injury, Necromancy, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death, Witchcraft, discussion of past suicide attempts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:27:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21765271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “What’d you bring for dessert?” Bev shouts to them over the wind and snow, as Richie ducks into the car to take Audrey out of her seat. He makes eye contact with Eddie as he’s climbing out of the driver’s seat, the two of them presumably thinking the same thing.“I’ll go,” Richie says.“No, I can—” Eddie starts to say, but Richie waves him off and stops unbuckling Audrey.“I was going to make something and I spaced,” Richie tells him. “I’ll just go out and grab something and come right back.”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 66
Kudos: 403





	can i go where you go?

**Author's Note:**

> happy part 25! get ready for some more necromancy! we love **witchcraft** in this house!!
> 
> there are spoilers in the tags, but they're important warnings. if you need to check them, just know that!!
> 
> Title taken from ["Lover"](https://open.spotify.com/track/1dGr1c8CrMLDpV6mPbImSI?si=Wzh0LCOTStqzx3WFkvxZoQ) by Taylor Swift.

Family dinners at Ben and Bev’s place are some of Richie’s favorites. That’s partly because Ben’s an awesome cook and partly because their place is _awesome._ They’ve got their own entire house in Astoria, which means it’s a little bit of a haul to get there, but Richie always thinks it’s worth it. Plus, he doesn’t have to cook, so. It’s all a win.

One of the hardest parts is driving three children under two years old for an hour, all the way out there, so Eddie typically drives while Richie strives (and, to his own surprise, often succeeds) to keep the girls entertained. He keeps the radio up and stays twisted around in the passenger seat to play with them. Every now and then Eddie takes one hand off the wheel and squeezes his thigh. It’s pretty much paradise.

“Keep your coat _zipped,”_ Eddie says firmly, when Riley tries to wriggle herself out of her coat. “We’re going to be there in two seconds.”

Richie holds up two fingers and mouths _two,_ then puts one down and mouths _one,_ then shrugs dramatically when the car doesn’t stop. Riley giggles behind her hands.

“What’re you doing?” Eddie snaps without heat; he has a smile on his face, when Richie glances at him. Riley’s playfully distressed, already in on the game.

“Nothing!” she exclaims.

“Doesn’t _sound_ like nothing,” Eddie replies. Richie mimes zipping his lips to her; Riley giggles again. _“What—”_

“Daddy!” Riley laughs. _“Nothing!”_

“If you say so,” Eddie tells her. Riley laughs again when Richie looks back to her. She reaches for her coat zipper again, tugs on it a little bit, and he says, _“Riley._ We’re _here._ Keep your coat on until we’re _inside.”_

Riley actually stops, because she’s a good kid and Richie’s impressed with how well she picks up social cues, but she’s fidgety until they manage to get her out of the car. She runs straight at Ben when he opens the front door, shrieking. He scoops her off the ground, giving her a tight hug that she returns with equal enthusiasm. It makes Richie’s heart throb, for a second, looking at them. It’s _nice._ He’s finally starting to really believe that they’ve all _earned_ nice. Even him, somehow, which he struggles with but likes to think he’s getting better about.

“What’d you bring for dessert?” Bev shouts to them over the wind and snow, as Richie ducks into the car to take Audrey out of her seat. He makes eye contact with Eddie as he’s climbing out of the driver’s seat, the two of them presumably thinking the same thing.

“I’ll go,” Richie says.

“No, I can—” Eddie starts to say, but Richie waves him off and stops unbuckling Audrey.

“I was going to make something and I spaced,” Richie tells him. “I’ll just go out and grab something and come right back.”

“Do you want me to take them out?” Eddie asks. Richie just leans in and kisses him. He keeps it chaste, close-mouthed and soft. Eddie leans up into him anyways. Richie can’t help but fucking _adore_ him.

“I’ll bring ‘em with me,” Richie says. “Father-daughter bonding. Plus, I don’t think Riley’s getting back _in_ the car, so.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Eddie agrees, turning to see her trying to climb across Ben’s shoulders like a snake while he laughed. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

Richie kisses him again then says, “I’m sure. I’ll be right back, we passed a bakery, like, ten minutes down the road.”

“Love you, dickhead,” Eddie says, and Richie squeezes his hand, then releases him.

“Love you, too, fuckwad,” Richie tells him. Eddie grins and leaves to go to the front door, snow whipping through his curls. Just for a moment, Richie watches him go, unable to look away. Then, he ducks back into the car and sits himself in the driver’s seat, twisting to look at Audrey and Nora in the back.

“Ready, buckaroos? We’re gonna get some store brownies or something,” Richie tells them. Audrey babbles nonsense at him, and he swears he hears _Da_ in there, but Eddie always says it’s just sounds and nothing deliberate when she does that. Richie winks at her anyways. Nora’s still dozing, so he reaches back and lightly tweaks her nose before he turns back to driving.

Richie’s skin is crawling, once he hits the road, but he can’t tell why. His hands feel clammy. He jokingly calls it his “Spidey-sense,” when it happens and Eddie notices, but it’s pretty much the truth. It’s just a bad feeling he gets, before something bad happens, and a good feeling he gets before something good happens. This is the _bad_ feeling, cold slime oozing up his spine, a hard stone in the pit of his stomach. He looks in the rearview as he drives, but Audrey and Nora are both fine, quiet and calm. Nora’s still asleep; Audrey’s watching the snow fly by outside her window. Richie turns back to the road, palms slick with sweat.

“Hey, we could use some jams, right?” Richie asks. Audrey babbles more nonsense at him, which he takes as a yes, flipping the radio back on. It’s just some oldies station, but the fact that it’s a sound coming from outside his own head is grounding. “Ugh. Girls, I’m telling you, don’t get old. All I do is get paranoid and throw my back out.”

Audrey doesn’t respond this time. Richie checks the rearview again, but she’s doing just fine, gazing out the window. Nora makes a soft noise, though, whimpering a little bit. Richie shifts to see her better in the mirror hanging from the back of her seat, reflected back into his rearview mirror so he can see her face better. She’s fussing, brow creasing, eyes still shut.

“You’re alright, kid,” Richie tells her. It’s a reassurance for all three of them, really, because he’s got a cold sweat going over his skin. “I gotcha.”

He’s driving slow, because there’s snow and because he’s nervous, goosebumps raising on his skin under his jacket. It's a speed Eddie would probably mock if he was here to see it, that big grin on his face when he turned to Richie to make fun of him. Just the thought of him makes Richie smile, so he reaches back and squeezes Audrey’s leg, where he can reach it, grounds himself a little more in the feel of it, just to feel better. She pats the back of his hand when he squeezes her thigh.

“Thanks, Audrey,” he says to her. She grabs two of fingers, then releases him. He's still sweating, his flesh still crawling, but the bakery is only two minutes away. He can do it. It’s two minutes there, ten minutes back to Ben and Bev’s, and then he’s fine. It’s fine. It’s _fine._

It’s not. He _knows_ it’s not, because his heart wouldn’t be pounding if it was. Nora’s whimpering becomes an actual almost cry; when he glances back through the mirrors again, she’s awake, face red, trying to break out of her seat. His heart jumps into his throat, racing, and he almost feels sick, trying to figure out what the fuck is going to happen. With his eyes on the road and hands at ten and two, he furrows his brow, focusing hard.

“Hey, you’re okay,” he says back to Nora, when she keeps making soft snuffling sounds at him, distressed. He's worried she's maybe sick, or hurt, and it's freaking him out, to think his sixth sense might be warning him for _them._ “Nora, baby, I got you—”

He’s cut off when he pulls through an intersection and sees a truck flying at them, nearly already through the crosswalk when Richie first lays eyes on it. It’s a surprise, then a jarring _shock,_ that something is fucking _coming at them;_ he throws the car into reverse and starts trying to back up out of the way, with just seconds of warning. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, because of _course_ he doesn’t. Two of his daughters are in the back seat; he’d never put them in danger, ever. He’d sooner die than let anything happen to them. The tires stick in the snow, and Richie’s blood runs cold. He feels charged, electricity running in currents over his skin like veins, and he sighs, closing his eyes. When he focuses, he can feel the energy building, flooding his chest and then bursting outwards; when it does, the car lurches backwards by a foot or two. He does it again, then again, exhausting himself as he does. He ends up several yards back from where he had started when the truck finally makes impact.

He gets the car far enough away that the truck only slams into the front, crunching the hood and crumpling the driver’s side door, sending glass flying everywhere. Richie feels his head smack against his window as it smashes before he's jerked sideways when the car spins out to the side across the intersection. The glass splinters across his face, and he’s trying to tear out of his seatbelt to get to the backseat—

Then, nothing.

Just—

_Nothing._

He’s in a massive, empty space. He doesn’t even know where it ends. It’s like he’s standing, but he doesn’t know if he _is_ standing or if his brain is just trying to help ground him. His heart is still pounding, for a moment, before it stops. Completely.

Frantic, he feels for his pulse in his throat with his fingers. Still nothing. Panicked, he turns, but the empty darkness doesn’t show him anything new. His hands aren’t sweating anymore, his heart’s not racing anymore, _none of it._ He’s just— He’s not even sure _what_ he is. Or _where._ The girls aren't there; he's completely alone.

Alone. Fucking _alone._ What if he’s alone forever? What if this is it? What if he never sees another person and he’s abandoned _everyone_ and he’s been abandoned _by_ everyone and he’s freaking out, freaking the _fuck out,_ and he’s not even sure if he’s alive to make it _count._

“Fuck,” he tries to say, but no sound comes out. With one hand, he reaches out, but nothing comes into his line of vision. _Nothing._ No hand, no arm attached. No air moving around his body, or lack thereof. He still feels charged with electricity, but now he has no fucking _skin_ to hold it in.

With his non-body, he clutches at the space where his chest should be and soundlessly whispers, _“Fuck.”_

* * *

When Richie isn’t back in twenty minutes, Eddie tries to shove down his anxiety. It’s exactly the amount of time he said he’d be gone, yeah, but it’s snowing, so the roads are probably bad, so it’ll take him longer, so Eddie just keeps telling himself, _He’s fine, they’re fine, it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine._

When it’s been a half an hour, Eddie’s pacing a little bit in the living room. Everybody else is already there, chatting and laughing. Riley’s leaning over Ezra, playing with his hair where he’s laying on a blanket on the floor. Eddie can’t really focus on any of it.

“Eddie, sit down, he’ll be right back,” Patty calls to him. “You’re just working yourself up over nothing.”

“He probably had to change one of the girls at the bakery or something,” Mike adds. Eddie doesn’t want to sit, but he does, taking the cushion next to Ben on the sofa. He can’t stop bouncing his leg, though, and then he’s standing again, pacing back over to the window. The snow whips by outside. His chest hurts.

The Losers are talking again, a little softer now in deference to Eddie’s mounting anxiety. He’s trying to shove it back down, because he’s been getting better at that, but it’s fucking _hard,_ when he hits forty-five minutes and there’s still no sign of them. He drums his fingers against the windowsill, feeling caged, then turns to Bill and Mike.

“Can I borrow your car?” he asks. The two of them exchange a look with each other, just for the briefest of moments. It makes Eddie’s heart seize, because he does that with _Richie,_ except Richie’s not _here_ to do that with. Even though it’s been under an hour, Eddie’s brain is repeating _missing missing missing_ on a loop. He feels a weird pang for Bill’s parents, because Audrey and Nora haven’t even been gone that long and he’s _still_ on the verge of freaking out. He truly can’t fathom what it must’ve felt like to lose Georgie.

As soon as he thinks about losing a kid, his heart jumps into his throat and he nearly vomits. Instead, he focuses his attention back on Bill, who’s digging his keys out of his pocket.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Mike says.

“Better than you having a s-stroke,” Bill adds.

“If you get to the bakery and he’s still there,” Bev says, as Eddie shrugs his coat back on, “bring back anything with lemon in it, please.”

“Can do,” Eddie says, with more confidence than he feels. His phone starts vibrating in his pocket as he’s buttoning his coat, and he almost tears the back pocket off his jeans ripping it out. It’s Richie’s picture filling his screen, his face pressed close into Nora’s right after she was born (well, "born," with her); Richie’s all scrunched-up and grinning in the snapshot. The white letters at the top of his screen say _ICE Richie 💖💖,_ emojis added by Richie himself. Eddie exhales and swipes to answer.

“Richie, you dipshit, you scared the _fuck_ out of me, where are you?” Eddie demands, as soon as the phone’s to his ear.

“Is this Eddie Kaspbrak?” an unfamiliar voice asks. Eddie’s blood runs cold, and he looks back to the Losers on the sofas and armchairs. He's not sure what look is on his face, but they all go silent when they look at him; he can feel that he must be pale, feeling drained, chilled. His heart kicks up, and his hands go numb, but she asked him a question, and he has to answer. The moment is frozen, briefly, and he can never go back to _before_ this, but he shatters the silence anyways. He can't stand the not-knowing.

“Yes,” he says, before he manages, "Why, what happened?" He knows he's almost too fast to understand, but he can't help it. He can't stop it. He feels powerless. “Who is this?”

Bill stands up first. Bev moves faster though, somehow, getting to Eddie’s elbow and taking his arm. Eddie’s distantly grateful, because he feels dizzy, all of a sudden, and sick, and confused.

“Eddie, my name’s Lorna, I’m a paramedic. There’s been an accident,” the woman’s voice tells him. Bev clutches his hand, close enough to him to hear through the phone. “Your name and number were handwritten on the back of Richard Kaspbrak’s license, and his phone was… It’s still usable. So I used his phone to call you. Can you—”

“Are they okay?” Eddie cuts her off. He knows something is wrong. He _knows,_ he doesn’t know how, he _knows._ He doesn’t even know _what_ he knows, or what it is. It’s just an unnamed, heavy, horrible _something_ hovering over them. His blood is curdled and he can’t stop looking down at Riley on the floor. She’s staring back at him, big dark eyes behind her glasses as she waits for him to address her.

“I—” Lorna says, then stops. “How did you kn— The children are fine, they’re— They’re actually completely uninjured.” She goes quiet for a moment before asking, “Are you the children’s guardian?”

“I’m their other father,” Eddie says, grip tightening on the phone. He feels a surge of relief so fucking strong he could pass out, but his heart kicks up at the same time, pounding _Richie Richie Richie Richie._ “What about Richie?”

“There are police down here to help you,” Lorna answers, instead of actually fucking _telling him anything._ “Are you close by the intersection of Willow Avenue and Kingston Street, or should I send out a dispatch to—”

“That’s right down the road,” Bev says softly, over whatever the end of Lorna’s question was.

“Yes, we’re coming,” Eddie tells Lorna, breathless, before he shoves the phone towards Bev and takes Bill’s keys from him. His hands are shaking and he can’t focus, his brain shrieking into such a high, fucked-up level of adrenaline-fueled chaos that he can barely see. He can’t even think straight. He’s not even _thinking._ It’s all just a roaring haze, white noise ringing in his ears.

“Eddie, give me the keys,” Ben says through the static. Eddie doesn’t move, but Ben takes the keys from his hands anyways. There’s a beat of silence.

“Daddy?” Riley asks hesitantly. He looks down at her, feeling like he’s about to explode; she’s just looking up at him, still, but now her eyes look glassy and she’s standing. She takes a step, and it breaks the thick air in the room when Eddie surges towards her, scooping her up and burying his face in her hair. She clings to him, clearly terrified and confused, but he can’t even speak. He rubs her back, then turns to Bill.

“Give her to me,” Patty says, in the same breath that Bill says, “Ben, I’ll drive, give me the keys.”

Patty lifts Riley out of Eddie’s arms, and he misses her instantly, _desperately,_ and he has the horrible thought, _What if it’s just us now,_ but that’s not true, because Audrey and Nora are okay and Richie can’t be— Richie _has_ to be okay, so it’s fine. It’s _fine._

 _It’s not fine,_ his brain tells him, and then it’s spinning off, now that he’s given his thoughts an inch of space. _Richie is dead and the girls are hurt and I wasn’t there, I wasn’t there and I didn’t save them and they’re gone, Richie’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead—_

“Eddie,” Bill says gently. His hands are shaking around the keys, too. Because this is _Richie._ This is _their_ fucking best friend, too. When he closes his eyes, he can see Richie’s face behind his eyelids, laughing and smiling like always. His heart fucking _hurts_ thinking about never seeing him again, about never hearing his _voice_ again, and it’s that thought that sends him sprinting for the door, nearly wrenching the doorknob off in his haste to get it open. There are footsteps crunching on the snow behind him once he’s outside, but he doesn’t stop until he’s reached Bill’s car and climbed inside with him.

Stan and Mike shove themselves in the backseat while Ben and Bev run out to their car. Stan taps in the intersection into his phone GPS and passes it forward for Eddie to hold and navigate while Bill drives. None of them speak; Eddie doesn’t even think he could if he tried. Once he starts speaking— Once he acknowledges what the _fuck_ is happening— It’s over. He’ll lose it.

Bill keeps speeding up, then slowing back down, snow still whipping at the windows. Eddie realizes, belatedly, none of them brought their coats except him, and he’s fucking _sweating_ in his. He’s twisting to try and get it off when a faint red light catches the corner of his eye. When he looks up, petrified, he can only see the lights for a moment before he can see the accident itself. There’s two ambulances and four cop cars and people swarming fucking _everywhere._ He feels sick, and traffic has stopped around the accident, so he just— he gets out of the car. He doesn’t even think about what he’s doing, he just _does it,_ sprints at the intersection as fast as he can go. He can hear footfalls behind him, slipping in the slush along the bike lane, but he doesn’t stop, just keeps _going._

The first thing he sees, when he gets to the intersection, is the fucked-up truck. It’s huge and the front of it is crushed, glass from the headlights and windshield shattered across the demolished hood and the snowy pavement, torn up from tires. Spun out a few yards away is his car, _their car,_ nearly unrecognizable. The entire front half is crumpled and smashed, the driver’s side window and the windshield are both completely shattered, and the frame of the car has been forcibly pried apart above the driver’s side. Eddie’s heart jumps into his mouth as he stumbles to a stop, staring at it.

The closer he’s gotten, he’s started hearing screaming; now that he’s here, he realizes it’s Audrey, but he can’t fucking _see her._ It gets him running again, heading towards the sound, skidding in the snow, but that’s when he sees why there’s so much fucking commotion. It’s because there’s a group of paramedics, firefighters, cops, and God knows what _fucking_ else gathered around something laying on the ground, and that’s—

It’s—

Eddie slides to a halt and frowns, staring down past the crowd of people at Richie’s face. He’s just laying there, on the pavement, and that’s all Eddie sees before he can’t see him anymore. His stomach twists. Richie didn’t even have his glasses on, but Eddie can’t see them when he looks around. They’re probably still in the car, and Eddie looks at the car, and back to where Richie is, and he just—

The world stops. The world just fucking _stops._ Eddie himself fucking _stops,_ staring at the snow. Just fucking _staring._

“Eddie—” someone’s voice says, but Eddie’s ears are ringing so loudly he can’t discern who it is. There’s a hand on his arm, but he barely even feels it, let alone cares enough to pull away from it. His first thought is, _I'll never see him again,_ and then he can't shake it. The thought that he'll _never_ get to talk to Richie again. It’s suddenly all he can think about, and his knees are weak, and he feels like he’s dying all over again.

They're all shouting, all the first responders, but Eddie can't make any of it out. He steps forward, fully intending to break into a run and force his way through them if he has to, but whoever has their hand on his arm stops him, grabbing him hard by the elbows. He twists, furious, and lays eyes on Ben behind him. Eddie's blood boils through his veins and he finally talks, spitting, “Let me _go,_ he _needs me—”_

“Hey, she's got Audrey and Nora over here!” Mike calls. Ben drags him in that direction instead. Eddie can't figure out what the right call is; for all he knows, Richie is dead, and his brain is _assuring_ him he's gone, and he has to be with him, he _has_ to—

But, at the same time, he can't stop thinking about his fleeting image of Georgie, of what that must've been like for Bill’s parents, and then he's wrenching his arms out of Ben's grasp and running for Mike instead. He’s flying, faster than he’s ever run, faster than any track record he ever beat or mile he’s ever run; he has to skirt around a mass of splintered shards of glass in the road, but they're on the other side, so he _runs._

Eddie can't get his hands on them fast enough, pulling them away from the paramedic looking them over. He kneels down in the snow when his legs give up, burying his face in Audrey's hair; now that he’s here, now that he has his hands on them and can see they’re okay, he can’t stop himself from sobbing. Audrey’s still screaming, but it’s a cry now, and he tugs her close against his chest. Someone tries to pull Nora away from him, but he twists away again until they stop.

“Is this Eddie Kaspbrak?” a somewhat-familiar voice asks. When Eddie looks up, it’s the paramedic talking, asking Mike. She’s the woman from the phone, Lorna.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Mike says.

“Is he okay?” Eddie demands. When he stands, Audrey wraps one fist in his coat and finally starts to calm down, sniffling into the warm material. Nora looks angry, her small face all red and frowning, but she’s not making a sound. 

“I don’t—” Lorna says, and motions backwards. “I— I don’t know. I stayed over here, I—”

 _“What happened,”_ Eddie demands, and it’s more statement than question. His voice sounds strange even to his own ears, choked and thin.

“The driver of the truck— He’s over there—” Lorna points, and Eddie looks backwards, where she’s aiming. He can see a guy sitting in the slush on the sidewalk, a paramedic bandaging a mark on his forehead. Otherwise, the guy seems fucking _fine,_ and Eddie thinks, _This man killed Richie, this man almost killed my children, him, this man, and he’s fine—_

He turns to Bill and Ben, passing Audrey and Nora over to them. Bill takes Audrey cautiously, looking like he’s afraid of moving too suddenly, like Eddie will spook like a wild deer if he freaks him out; Ben takes Nora like he’d rather be handcuffing Eddie to his own wrist.

“Eddie—” Ben starts, but Eddie’s already spinning in the snow and running for the guy on the sidewalk. Someone’s hand brushes his arm, but he’s too fast, barely slipping until he’s reached the sidewalk and shoved the guy back by his shoulders.

“Hey!” the paramedic shouts, but Eddie’s already punched the guy in the nose, felt it crunch under his hand. He’s aware that he’s saying something, maybe even shouting it, but he doesn’t know what; whatever it is, it’s just coming out of his mouth. He’s occupying the back corner of his own mind, watching himself as if through a movie screen.

Eddie pins the guy’s shoulders down with his knees and gets his hands on his throat with all intentions of choking him to death before someone’s hauling him backwards. He scrambles in the snow, trying to get back up, but whoever it is is on top of him again, holding his face to the snow when he screams. Eddie pants, trying to wriggle free, but he can’t manage it.

“Eddie,” Mike says. “Eddie, stop, man, come on, this isn’t helping—”

With a sob, Eddie gives up, pressing his face into the snow and shouting, “Then what the fuck _will,_ Mike?”

Mike doesn’t answer. For a moment, it’s just them: Mike pinning Eddie in the snow, Eddie sobbing, gravel under his face. Then, Mike lifts Eddie, drags him up and turns him around, hugging him so hard that Eddie feels his ribs creak. He doesn’t care, holds him even tighter in return. Eddie’s mind is _racing,_ flying through a million thoughts at once, wondering if Audrey or Nora has internal bleeding, or if _Richie_ has internal bleeding, or if Richie is even _alive,_ and what will he do if he’s _not,_ what is he going to fucking _do—_

“Mike,” Eddie says, once he gets himself to a point where he was capable of speaking again. He can barely feel the cold.

“I gotcha, Eds,” Mike replies. Eddie starts crying all over again, fists twisted in Mike’s sweater. He’s not even sure how long he sits there before someone puts their hand on his shoulder.

“Can you come with us, Eddie?” Lorna asks. Eddie feels frozen, but then he looks up at her.

“Please, I just—” Eddie starts, then stops, taking a breath before he says, “Is he— I mean, is— Oh, _God—”_

“No, hey, calm down,” Mike says, pulling him in again. He’s so much taller than Eddie, it’s easy to close his eyes and just pretend. Just for a second. Mike strokes his hair back from his face. “Let’s go with her, okay?”

Eddie can’t find an answer, but, lucky for him, Mike wasn’t waiting for one. He pulls Eddie to his feet and pushes at him until he walks on his own, but then he remembers. He _really_ remembers, that this is fucking _Richie,_ and who the _fuck_ is he being so fucking _obedient_ for? That’s— That’s his fucking— It’s _Richie._ If that were him out there, bleeding out in the fucking snow, Richie wouldn’t stop until he could get his hands on him. Hell, Richie _hadn’t_ fucking stopped; everyone told him how Richie’d had to be dragged out of the sewers that day, and even then, he’d still fucking _brought Eddie back._

 _It’s Richie,_ Eddie thinks, anguished; it’s like a physical _wound,_ pounding in his head.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says, out loud, but that’s all the warning Mike gets before Eddie’s darting out of his grip again and running. He’s the fastest one of all of them, he always has been, he’s the _fastest,_ and he gets to Richie first, slipping in through a gap near Richie’s left shoulder. His face is a mess, the left side torn up with glass, blood smeared all the way across to his other cheek and down his ear. Eddie was right, he doesn’t have his glasses. He can’t find them anywhere.

They’ve stabilized his head and his neck, along his spine, and his left arm is in a splint; his leg’s obviously broken, but nobody’s gotten to it yet, because they’re busy pounding on his chest. Eddie reaches out with a shaking hand, feeling Richie’s throat with his fingers. He can’t find his pulse, and he digs his nails in, trying to find _anything._ Richie’s skin is cold under his, but it’s fucking _snowing,_ and Eddie sobs when he still can’t find anything.

He’s pulled back again, but he jerks forward, taking Richie’s face in his hands. This is his waking fucking _nightmare,_ and he keeps thinking he’ll wake up, or Richie will wake up, and everything will be okay. It’s unreal, the idea that he could possibly fucking lose Richie. He can’t. He _can’t._ He _just_ got him back.

“Richie, hey, hey,” Eddie says, desperate. “Hey, I got you, Rich. I got you. You’re going to be okay, buddy, alright? I have you, you’re okay— _Stop it,”_ Eddie snaps, when someone tries to pull him back again, “Stop it, _stop it,_ he needs me here with him, I have to—”

“Back up,” a paramedic orders him. Eddie’s already run through everything he knows about head injuries three time, internal bleeding and spinal injuries twice, and everything else from broken wrists to whiplash once, words flooding his mind and his throat until he’s choked by it. He remembers, viciously, standing in the house on Neibolt Street, his back against the wall, Bill screaming at him while Richie almost died. Eddie had choked then. He’s _not_ going to choke now. Not this time. Not when Richie needs him.

The paramedics are still working, but Eddie just focuses, his hands on either side of Richie’s head. His blood pulses out over Eddie’s hands. Eddie concentrates, tries to dig into the feelings Richie always says he gets, remembering how it had felt when Richie had brought him back to life in Derry. His hands close over Richie’s eyes; in the next moment, he’s being pushed off of him, and a defibrillator screams before the paddles hit Richie’s bare chest, clothes torn open, bloodied. Eddie takes his face again and kisses him, desperate, then says, “Richie, _please.”_

Mike yanks him back again, and the defibrillator charges up again. Eddie struggles against Mike’s hands, trying to get back to Richie and save him. Bill’s voice rings in his ears, through a couple years of memories, saying, _Do you want Richie to die, too? Do you want him to die, too?,_ and it feels like he’s dying, too.

“I don’t want him to die, too, Mike, let me _go—”_ Eddie shouts, but Mike wrenches him back. He pulls, but he’s sinking, and he hits the snow again.

* * *

What should be Richie’s hand stretches out, and he tries to pull something together, to manifest fingers, but nothing comes. He focuses harder, thinking of Riley’s face when he scrunches up a nose and eyes he doesn’t have. She does something similar, and that always makes Eddie laugh, and then he thinks about _Eddie,_ and how _pissed_ he is gonna be if Richie’s dead. If Richie manages to get out of this shithole, he’ll probably get his ass kicked. He’ll deserve it, too. If only because he managed to get Audrey and Nora out of the way—

“Fuck,” he can’t say, even though he still tries. Audrey and Nora are alone, after the truck hit them and Richie got— knocked unconscious, or died, or whatever he’s done. Hopefully not died, since he’s the necromancer—

 _Right,_ he thinks. _I’m the necromancer._

He focuses hard on Audrey and Nora, how cold it might be in the car if the heat’s gone out. They’ll need him. If he was awake _(alive),_ he’s pretty sure he’d be getting a nosebleed by now, concentrating, jolting through his veins. When he looks down, he’s shocked to see he _has_ veins, but _only_ veins, a system of lightning-electric charges jolting from his heart and up to his eyes and his brain, out to where hands and ankles would go, a floating foundation in the nothingness.

His lungs swim into existence, and he rasps a breath through a nonexistent throat. It just hurts, so he doesn’t try again. Other organs float into place through the hazy darkness. The lightning-blood pulsing through the dark at least gives him some light, at least, even if he’s the one who has to do the illuminating. He concentrates, wanting to go back to his life, to the life he finally wanted to fucking _live,_ for _once._ He’s finally got everything he wanted and he’s fucking _blowing it._

Someone shouts, distantly. Richie turns his brand-new, still-shitty eyes up, but he still can’t see through to whoever it is, so he concentrates harder on at least giving himself _bones._ He thinks about the car, the cold car, _the car’s cold, you need to get to the girls, they’ll be cold—_

His bones start to slide into place, locking in like Legos underneath the bolts of his blood shooting around. He feels a little more human, even if he _looks_ more like something he’s seen in a Party City once or twice.

Abruptly, his blood is rushing up to his face, and he feels like something is pulling on him. It’s two hands, he thinks, so it’s a some _one_ pulling on him. Richie reaches up, grabs for wrists he can’t see, and he _finds them._

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice says, from so fucking _far away._ Richie stretches for him, his smaller bones slipping into place, finally giving him skeletal fingers. “Hey, hey— Hey, I got you, Rich. I got you.”

 _Eddie,_ Richie wants to say, but he _can’t,_ but he’s Richie, so he tries anyways. He’s startled, when his voice actually comes out, calling Eddie’s name upwards. He’s startled, after so long in the silence.

“Eddie,” he tries again, and it works.

“You’re going to be okay, buddy, alright?” Eddie’s disembodied, all-knowing voice tells him. Richie feels like he might be getting _Truman Show_ ‘d. Or maybe _It’s A Wonderful Life_ ’d, which might be fun for a little while. “I have you, you’re okay— _Stop it.”_

“Sorry, alright, fuck, I’ll focus,” Richie tells him. He shuts his (real, _existing)_ eyes again and concentrates on Eddie’s voice. It’s not hard; he’s thought about it every day he’s been able to for his entire life.

“Stop it,” Eddie repeats, but then continues, quickly, _“Stop it,_ he needs me here with him, I have to—”

Something cuts Eddie off, and then his hands tighten. His electric blood shoots around again, and then something covers his eyes. His muscles start sliding into place so he can hold Eddie’s phantom hands properly. He feels like the darkness is filling up with a thick _something,_ syrupy and dark and viscous.

“Fuck,” Richie curses, “motherfucker, Eddie, come on, help me _out here—”_

Something happens. Something, capital-S _Something,_ a jolt that kicks the lightning back into his chest. His heart starts pumping real blood, _blood_ blood, his skin sealing up over it as it starts to course.

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice says somewhere. _“Please.”_

Richie can’t fucking say no to _that._ He feels Eddie’s lips on his in the exact second he gets his lips back, and he tries to reach for him, but he just can’t quite make it while his nails are still growing into place. His heart stops, then starts again.

The electricity courses over his skin, zaps him back into coherency. He stretches again, then frowns.

“Come _on,_ Eds,” Richie calls. “Help me out here!”

Eddie’s voice is farther away now, but it says, “I don’t want him to die, too, Mike, let me _go—”_ It reminds him of the house on Neibolt Street, when Bill had screamed at Eddie while Stan’s monstrous head had attacked Richie. After Ben had saved him, Bill had shouted _“Do you want Richie to die, too?”,_ and he hadn’t been able to breathe well enough to reply and spare Eddie the pain of that stupid fucking question. Of _course_ he didn’t want him to fucking die, fucking _hell,_ he froze up, it happens—

 _But he didn’t this time,_ Richie’s mind reminds him.

“Oh, fuck,” Richie says, because wherever his body is, he thinks Eddie is with it. That means he’s not letting Richie just die alone in the snow, and he’s trying to do something to help, and he didn’t freeze up. He’s grown so _fucking_ much, since they were kids and again, now, since they met for the second time. Richie wants to see who Eddie’s going to become, at the end of their lives.

He wants that for Riley, too, and Audrey, and Nora. He wants to see them grow up and grow old and have kids of their own. _He_ wants to grow up and grow old. Really. He’s been working so _fucking_ hard on it, and he’s not going to let it slip away. Not when he’s a fucking _necromancer._ Not when he has the power to stop this and fix it.

Richie knows he has to do this for himself. It takes a moment to find that he genuinely _wants_ to, and that’s the real shock. He _wants_ to live, when he thinks about it, and he’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s really thought that in his _entire_ fucking life.

“Holy shit,” Richie says out loud. His skin and nails and hair are done; his muscles and his organs and his blood are in place; his bones and his magic and his _spark_ are finally complete. “I want to live.”

Richie gasps, finally getting real air into his fucking lungs. Light splatters painfully across his eyes, and he groans, shoving at a weight on his chest. His arm hurts, but not as bad as he thinks it should. He tries to focus on it, but he’s so fucking exhausted from fighting his way _back_ to fucking reality that he can’t manage to heal it properly. He’ll just have to do it after he’s slept.

“Mike, let me _go—”_ Eddie shouts. Richie tries to turn his head, but something or someone is holding him in place, he can’t see what. His glasses are gone somewhere. Since he can’t turn to see Eddie, he tries to clear his throat to talk. That doesn’t work.

“Eddie,” he manages, rasping. There are hands on his face, abruptly, but none of them are Eddie’s. They’re all unfamiliar people in familiar uniforms, but it’s so much, overwhelming. He shuts his eyes again, trying to look away.

“You’re going to be okay, Richard, keep calm,” one of them tells him. The clinical way they say _Richard_ grates up his spine.

“Is he alive?” Eddie’s voice shouts. He sounds so fucking ruined that Richie’s heart _aches_ for him. He wants to go to him, _needs_ to, terrified of the empty loneliness he’s only just left behind. Richie tries to move, but nobody will fucking _let him._

“Eddie,” Richie tries again. He can’t manage to get it loud enough for Eddie to actually hear it, he thinks, so he makes eye contact with the closest paramedic he sees and says, as emphatically as he can manage, _“Eddie.”_

“He’s saying ‘Eddie,’” the paramedic says. There’s a scuffle, and then Eddie’s haze of a blurry face comes swimming into his vision again.

“Oh, God, _Richie,”_ Eddie sobs, and then he’s pressing their mouths together. It hurts so fucking bad, but Richie lets him, because he thought for a while, back there in the… other place, whatever that was, that he’d never get to see Eddie or the girls again. And that is simply _not_ a fucking option, not for Richie Kaspbrak.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie says. Eddie kisses him again, and Richie’s heart squeezes painfully. He gasps, then clutches for Eddie. His arm shrieks with pain, but he can’t _breathe._ Eddie gets yanked away again, and Richie only catches a glimpse of Eddie’s terrified face and the word _“cardiac,”_ from someone’s mouth, so he focuses the very last of his energy on his heart. He jolts it before they do, and then he gasps, spine arching.

He can’t stay awake anymore, he doesn’t think, and he drifts until he’s asleep, and his sleep is blissfully deep and tragically full of dreams. It’s all warped memories, images of Paul Bunyan chasing him and Nora’s face in the rearview mirror as the truck hit them and getting fired from _Saturday Night Live_ and Eddie dying in the sewers, wrapped up into one.

Waking up comes in pieces. The first time, he’s barely awake, and it’s dark, so he focuses on healing his arm as best as he can. It still aches, when he’s done, but he falls back asleep after. He does this again with his ribs, then again with the shattered bone in his leg, which takes three tries. Nobody’s there any of the times he wakes up, and it stays dark; he figures it’s after hours at whatever hospital they’ve left him in, or something. He really can’t see anything in the darkness of the room he’s in.

Next time, there’s soft light, and Richie squints against it. His face hurts, and his chest, and— pretty much fucking everything, actually, but he’s _alive,_ alive enough to hurt, and he’s never been so fucking _grateful._

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice asks. Richie turns his head, and then his arms are full of Eddie. He brings them up to hold him, grateful he’d focused on healing his arm first as Eddie clings to him. Richie can’t help but sob, because he’s a real big fucking cryer.

“Fuck, are you okay?” Richie asks, throat scratching as he tries to talk. Eddie clutches his face in his hands, kisses him hard. It still motherfucking _hurts,_ but Eddie’s worth it, always has been.

“Am I fucking _okay?”_ Eddie demands. “Richie, they said you fucking _died._ I felt your pulse _myself.”_

Richie pulls back a little bit to look up. After a beat where he just looks at Eddie’s face, absorbing the fact that he gets to see him again. “Eds, I’m a necromancer. I’m always gonna come back to you.”

“This isn’t funny,” Eddie tells him. He sounds painfully raw, drawn open and exhausted. “Richie, it’s not— This isn’t a _joke.”_

“I didn’t say it was,” Richie says. “This is just how I talk.”

Eddie looks down at him again and, after a moment, the corners of his lips twitch up. Richie grins, reaching for him.

“Ah, I knew it,” Richie says. Eddie grabs him close, holds him in a tight hug in the soft dawn light of the hospital room. They’ve done this before, but Richie’s never felt happier to wake up here. “The girls— They’re—”

“Yeah, yes, they’re okay,” Eddie tells him. “You did just fine, Richie, okay? You did a great job.”

“Thanks, Eds,” Richie says. He flexes the fingers on his left hand, where the pain’s the sharpest. “What’s the damage?”

“My fucking sanity,” Eddie tells him. “Richie, _never_ do that to me again. I can’t lose you. I _can’t_ lose you. Richie, I—” Eddie stops, then shakes his head, looking away. Richie reaches out to him, but Eddie shakes his head again.

“Hey, Eds,” Richie tries. Eddie looks down at his own hands. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m here.”

“You weren’t,” Eddie says, and then he covers his face, choking on a sob. Richie reaches out to pull him in to hug again, reaching up to dig his fingers into Eddie’s hair. Eddie tucks his face into Richie’s neck, wraps them up in each other while he cries, and so Richie cries, too. He’s a sympathy cryer and this is _Eddie_ and, screw it, he was fucking scared out of his _mind._

“I’m always gonna come back,” Richie assures him. “I’ll always come back to you, Eds, I swear. I _swear._ And, plus, hey! Now you know I _can_ do it! So, like. Bonus?”

“Fuck you,” Eddie laughs weakly.

“I finally realized I want to live,” Richie tells him. Eddie tenses, his grip on Richie tightening. After a moment, he draws back, sitting beside him on the edge of his hospital bed. “I just haven’t thought about it in a long time, I mean. Outside of therapy. Which is _good.”_

“Thought about what?” Eddie asks. Richie opens his mouth, then closes it. _“Richie.”_

“Don’t,” Richie says. His chest hurts, when Eddie sounds so fucking pained like that. “That’s not the takeaway here.”

“When?”

“I didn’t—”

 _“When,”_ Eddie says.

“A couple of times,” Richie tells him. “Twice in high school.”

“Richie.”

“Once in my twenties and once a few months before Derry,” he finishes. “That’s it. Besides— I mean, right before I brought you back. But I didn’t do anything that time.” He looks away, exhales. His memory of Pennywise coming after him bubbles up, and Richie can almost see him again, sitting up on Paul Bunyan’s shoulder that time he hadn’t been able to see any of the Losers, during the worst fucking summer of his life. He’d shouted at him, when Richie had told him the Losers were going to kill him. He’d taunted Richie and told him he couldn’t kill him when he couldn’t even kill _himself,_ and Richie had believed him, for a while.

It took time to shake. And work. And sometimes a thought slips in, but he’s so much better now, it’s insane. He almost wants to go on an apology tour of everyone who knew him when he was at his worst. He wants to apologize to _himself._ No, scratch that, fuck that, the _world_ owes _him_ a fucking apology, for giving him so much bullshit to deal with. He got his shitty fucking parents, his homophobic fucking hometown, his _alien fucking clown,_ his alcoholic adulthood, his— his _Eddie,_ losing _his Eddie._

“Richie,” Eddie says again. “Hey. Come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie tells him. Eddie pulls him back in, holds him close.

“Do you…” Eddie starts, then stops. “You don’t… I mean. It’s okay if you do. Well, it’s not _okay_ okay, but I can help. It _will be_ okay—”

“Okay, okay, don’t hurt yourself,” Richie tells him. “Eddie, baby, c’mere.”

Eddie goes, digging his head under Richie’s chin. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but Richie just wants to hold him, just for a moment longer. He kisses the top of his head as Eddie pulls his phone out.

“The guys are here with the girls,” Eddie tells him. “Are you okay to see them?”

Richie nods, because he _always_ is, and says, “Send in the clowns.”

Eddie takes that to heart, brings Stan in first with the girls. Riley scrambles into his lap, sobbing, and that makes Richie cry, too, leaving Stan and Eddie with the lofty goal of trying to calm them both down. Riley’s actually calmer first, and she pats at Richie’s shoulder until he’s quieted again.

“Eyes,” Riley says. She pats at his face, and he winces. “Cheek. _Daddy.”_

“He’ll get better,” Eddie tells her. He sets Audrey beside her, lets Richie look her over to his content. When he’s sure she’s fine, completely unmarked, he does the same with Nora. She looks at him with her big eyes, the big eyes _they_ gave her. Richie wonders how much she feels, too. He thinks it’s more than he originally thought, which had been an optimistic _none._

“I’m so happy you’re okay, Richie,” Stan tells him. He leans in to hug him, too, then sniffles, turning his face into Richie’s neck. Richie _has_ to cry, for that, which makes Stan laugh wetly into his throat. After a moment, he pulls back, then kisses Richie on his bandaged forehead. He wipes at his face, then turns, saying “Patty’s— She’s here somewhere— Hey, there she is.”

Patty brings Ezra over, kisses Richie on the top of the head so many times Eddie tries to step in because Richie flinches when she’s a little too forceful. Ezra pulls on his IV slightly too hard, right after, and Stan ushers them out.

“Trying to kill his favorite uncle?” Ben asks. Richie reaches for him, and Ben goes. “Hey, big brother.”

“Always watching,” Richie tells him. They hug tight. “Sorry to spook you.”

“If you _ever_ fucking do that again, I’ll kill you,” Ben says. “I mean it, buddy. Sorry to say.”

“Eddie’s already threatened me,” Richie says, teasingly apologetic.

“Yeah, get in line,” Eddie tells him. Ben goes to the door and brings Bev in. She has a harder time hugging Richie, but she manages it. She cries, too. Richie’s starting to feel wrung out, but he hugs her back just as tight as he can. His left arm is in a cast, he’s realized, and it makes it harder to do everything.

“You’re not getting out of all this that easy, Rich,” Bev tells him.

“I’ll say,” Mike says. His hug is the warmest by far of all of them; Richie melts into him and wants to fall asleep there, but then Mike passes him off to Bill, regretfully. After a moment, though, he sinks into Bill, too. Bill rubs over his hair gently, the pad of his thumb brushing the shell of his ear; Richie shuts his eyes.

“Do you want us to go?” Ben asks quietly. “You tired? We can go.”

“Daddy,” Riley says quietly, still sandwiched between Richie’s hip and Eddie’s legs. He reaches out and cups her face in his good hand, squeezing her round cheeks together. She blows a raspberry at him, and he grins.

“Cupcake, I’d do _anything_ for you, and I mean that,” Richie tells her. “Even come back from the fucking _dead_ if I have to.”

Riley smiles, her face still squished. She tries to lick his hand, and it’s such a visceral reminder of himself as a kid that he has to laugh.

“Go back to sleep,” Eddie tells him quietly. As quietly as Eddie can say anything, anyways. He strokes Richie’s hair back from his forehead. His face looks so fucking soft, gentled from whatever he’s thinking about. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“You better,” Richie replies.

 _“You_ better,” Eddie snaps without heat. “Love you, dickhead.”

“Love you, too, fuckwad,” Richie replies, before yawning. He lets go of Riley’s face, but she curls up into his side, burying her face in his bandaged chest, over his hospital gown. He puts his free, uncasted hand over her back and shuts his eyes, yawning again. Eddie’s hand strokes his cheek gently.

* * *

Eddie’s glad that he works from home, now, and that he’s starting to run his own business, because it means he can be at home with Richie all the time. Partially, he’s overjoyed because he can see him, spend time with him, remind himself that Richie is alive and still okay; another part of him, though, is also glad to be able to take of Richie the _right_ way, _his_ way. Richie had assured him that he could do whatever he wanted, take care of him however he saw fit, and Eddie had felt such a surge of fucking pure _love_ for him, he wanted to swim in it. Richie just fucking _gets_ him, gets his neuroses and his personalities and his quirks and his deepest feelings. He _loves_ him.

And he can _not_ lose him.

So, he looks after him while he works from home.

Richie’s fallen asleep on the couch, his good cheek pressed into his pillow. His arm in its cast is hanging off the edge, his fingertips brushing the floor. The left side of his face, exposed to the air, is the side that got torn up with glass and Richie hadn’t healed in time, so it’s healing on its own, slowly, stitches holding skin in place with dark thread. His left leg ended up in a cast, too, making him a miserable bedridden mess part of the time. He yawns in his sleep, stretching a little like an oversized cat. Eddie shakes himself.

Riley’s asleep on the floor, curled up near Richie’s hand, her own hand having fallen out of it when she fell asleep there; Audrey’s tucked under his good arm, sleeping curled against his chest, and Nora’s on his back, fast asleep _._ Eddie told Richie he’d keep an eye on their warm little puppy-pile, make sure he didn’t flip Nora onto the floor, but Richie’s pretty immobilized by his injuries, so he doesn’t move too much in his sleep. Not right now, anyways.

After a long, _long_ while of staring at them, eyes tracing the new lines on Richie’s face so he can memorize the scars before they’re even there, Eddie stands. He takes two Sharpies off his own desk and goes to the sofa. None of the girls move; Richie sniffles a little and shifts, but that’s it. Eddie uncaps the first Sharpie and gently lifts Richie’s arm, scribbling on the cast. He uncaps the other Sharpie with his teeth and writes one letter down in vibrant red.

When he lifts his head, after examining his handiwork, he’s almost startled to find Nora awake, looking back at him. Her hand comes up to curl under her chin as she yawns, at the same time Richie yawns in his sleep, and it’s too fucking cute. Eddie pulls his phone out and takes a picture before taking his spot on the floor again. He carefully puts the caps back on the Sharpies until they _snap_ into place, because his license does say he’s still Eddie Kaspbrak, regardless of what they’ve all been through.

Eddie lays on his side, then curls around Riley on the floor. He stretches until he’s comfortable, then reaches up, taking Richie’s long fingers in his. Richie squeezes him back, smiling a little, mostly-asleep.

“Hey, loser,” Richie murmurs. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Nothing,” Eddie replies. He lifts his chin a bit, looks at the _L O **V** E R _written across Richie’s cast. He’ll probably laugh, when he sees it, and more than probably kiss Eddie for it. He’ll love it, Eddie’s pretty sure. There’s something to be said about knowing someone like that. He hopes so, anyways. “Love you.”

“Love you, love you, love you,” Richie mumbles into the pillow. He squeezes Eddie’s hand again, then falls back asleep. Eddie tucks himself in tighter, holds them all close, and resigns to never let them go, at least for another twenty minutes before he and Richie have to go to their third therapy sessions of the week.

**Author's Note:**

> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)! I'm currently taking commissions there!


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